


Pyre

by bombcollar



Category: Dark Souls III
Genre: Gen, Mentions of Emotional and Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 10:32:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10332683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bombcollar/pseuds/bombcollar
Summary: He was a terrible father, but he still must have a funeral.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Another fic crossposted from my RP blog. Some lines have been changed to remove things that wouldn't make sense out of context.

Deep beneath Lothric Castle lay a laboratory, a cursed site if there ever was one, and the place of Lothric’s birth. “Assembly” may have been a more fitting word, but it was so cold and mechanical, and carried none of the warmth of the womb all children ought to know. Lorian tells his brother he does not have to come if he does not want to, but Lothric does. He wants to see his father committed to the fire. 

The site is largely intact, buried too deep and too thoroughly for thieves to find it, and most disturbing, it’s clearly been recently used. Their father and his cohorts had been busy in here, up until the arrival of their youngest brother, whose whereabouts they still weren't sure of. Maybe their mother had taken him, or maybe he had existed only within the wretched confines of their father's mind. Lorian hauls himself over to the massive firepit set into a side chamber, dumps Oceiros’s festering corpse into the chute, and lets the grate slam shut. He'd become such a hideous beast, slimy, scaleless and eyeless, his own humanity ripped from his flesh as he'd molded himself into a shoddy imitation of the Paledrake he'd so idolized.

  
Lothric waits, seated on a bench with his knees drawn up to his chest so he did not have to sit on the cold stone floor. The lamps still have oil in them, but the light they cast is feeble and discolored. He has been very quiet since the process began, since Lorian dragged their father’s body from the crumbling ruin of the garden.   


His silence worried Lorian greatly, knowing that Lothric had been told all his life that a proper holy offering must be at peace with his destiny. He must not be sad or angry, that it was better to be silent and hold those doubts within himself. He became unresponsive when he was truly upset or frightened, and Lorian was concerned he would not know how to cope with his father’s death, how to process the emotions that came with it, and how that might wear upon his already burdened mind. 

There is enough fuel left to light the furnace. Lorian pulls the lever, igniting the burners and sitting back beside his brother. The smoke and reek of burning, putrid flesh would be carried far away from them, but the flames are intense enough to warm the previously chilly room. It’s difficult to know how to feel. Lorian had hated his father in the end, but for most of his life Oceiros had been a man he’d admired and tried to please. A man he’d been proud to have as his father, whose love, while conditional, had been real to him. 

Lothric hadn’t had that. He’d only ever been an object, a key to fit a holy lock, a source of pride and accomplishment not for himself, but for the kingdom, for producing such a child in the first place. Oceiros had never touched or held him as a father should his son, not until much later, when that touch came in the form of fingers gripping his shoulders tight enough to bruise livid and purple, holding him down as he thrashed and screamed and fought against the syringe being lowered to his arm, seeking his precious draconic blood. 

The flames crackle merrily. Lorian looks over at his brother, who is just as quiet as always, and seems to be watching the flickering orange light. He lifts a hand and places it on Lothric’s back, gently rubbing between the sharp wings of his shoulderblades, over the ridge of his vertebrae and the small, soft spines that grew from them. Lothric shifts closer, laying his head against his brother’s side, as Lorian puts that same arm around him. He’s sure they’re going to be sitting in silence until their father is burned to ashes, but after a few minutes pass, he hears Lothric take in a shaky breath and press his hands to his face, unable to keep back the sob he’s been holding in. It’s followed by several more as he breaks down and begins to cry, messy and half-smothered in his hands like he’s still trying to hide it, as much a wail as it is a laugh in relief, relief that they’re both finally free of this horrible man and despair for what he’d put them both through. 

Lorian gathers Lothric in his arms, holding him tight as tears roll down his own cheeks, in both mourning and relief. They might not be free, but this gave him hope that, broken as they were, they still might survive this and find peace, find what people they may have been beneath kinder circumstances. 


End file.
